Fly Away
by buffyaddict
Summary: This is the sequel to Frayed. Still reeling from the loss of Dean, Sam is drawn into a haunting in the psychiatric ward. Also, Dean returns to help Sam face the demon.Features Sam!angst and Brotherly!bonding.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: Fly Away

**Author**: buffyaddict

**Rating**: PG-13 for some naughty words

**Summary:** This is the sequel to _Frayed. _You should really read that one first or this one won't make much sense. (Then again, it might not make sense even if you do read _Frayed_ first:-)

Still reeling from the loss of Dean, Sam is drawn into a haunting in the psychiatric ward. Also, Dean returns to help Sam face the demon.

Features Sam!angst and Brotherly!Bonding.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Supernatural or any Winchestery goodness.

_It makes sense that it should hurt in this way._

_That my heart should break and my hands shake_

_As if to say:_

_Sure it don't matter except in the most important way. -- Poe_

Chapter 1

Sam is curled on his side, arms clasped around himself. Ever since his shoulder healed he holds himself like this. He is pretty sure if he lets go he will fly apart. He has been awash in a sea of drugs for quite some time. The drugs help, but not enough. He wants to stop floating. He wants to drown.

The doctor checks on him frequently. It feels like it's been a week, but it could be a month. Or a year. Time has stopped having much meaning without Dean.

_Dean is dead._

Sam can't fathom it. In fact, he rarely does. He prefers to drift along on drugs and denial and pretend Dean is still with him. Or better, yet, they're in the Impala on their way to Asscrack, Iowa. Sometimes if Sam concentrates, he can pretend the hum of the wall heater is the sound of an engine. But sometimes he can't escape the memory of Dean's penny eyes.

He feels dead already.

His body just hasn't caught up yet.

He's so tired of being left behind.

---------------------------------------------

He spends most of the therapy sessions staring at the wall just above Doctor Robinson's head. He rarely speaks. Robinson blathers on, trying to draw Sam into a conversation. Is he still hallucinating? Does he think demons exist? Why can't he accept Dean died from an aneurysm?

Sam thinks back to his visit with Ellicot Jr. and how he bitched about Dean. _Selfish bastard. _A tear slides down his face. He's all cried out, but sometimes his eyes forget.

"Sam?" Robinson tries to get Sam to focus. He just picks at the plastic bracelet on his wrist. It reads: _Samuel Halford_. He wonders what Dr. Robinson would say if Sam just up and told him there was no such person as Sam Halford. Although there really isn't a Sam Winchester anymore, either.

"--Sammy?"

The word is a needle in Sam's heart. His breath hitches and his eyes fix on Robinson. For one moment there is blinding white rage. He wants to break Robinson's nose and feel the blood. He wants to put his hand through the window just to feel the glass bite down. His voice is a cracked whisper: "Don't."

Robinson's face transforms into a look of amazement and his eyebrows jump. "Sam? What is it? Don't what?" He leans forward, radiating encouragement.

Sam's eyes telegraph something that makes Robinson recoil.

"Don't call me Sammy. _Ever_. Only he gets to do that." It's the longest sentence Sam has said in weeks.

The session is cut short.

Sam doesn't care.

-----------------------------------------------------

He's sitting in the day room against a wall of background noise: other patients, a television game show, a nurse, laughter, crying. It doesn't mean anything. He's focused inward. He's broken. He's been put back together, he still has bones and internal organs, but the most important piece is gone. The Dean piece.

He's sitting by the window and two nurses walk by. One says to the other: "I hate this weather. It's so cold outside."

Sam feels the _empty_ whistle through him and thinks: _It's cold inside._

------------------------------------------------------

Sam has stopped caring about the yellow eyed demon. He hasn't had any visions since Dean died. Part of him knows Dad--and even Dean--would be disappointed in him for giving up (or giving _in_) but he can't find the energy for anything beyond guilt. Without Dean to hunt with, to hunt _for_, he is adrift. He's lost the drive to hunt and he has more than enough guilt to keep him occupied. He recalls a song Jess liked. If he closes his eyes he can still see hear her humming along with Tori Amos. She loved the song, and lately, Sam can't get it out of his head. One of the lyrics goes: "_I've got enought guilt to start my own religion_." Guilt is his religion now. When he was little Dean was his religion. He used to worship everything about Dean. Maybe even when he wasn't so little.

He lays in bed after the lights are out and feels the memories roll back. He moves the memories in his mind like mental rosary beads. He has used rosaries in exorcisms, but that's all. He's not really Catholic. He belongs to the Church of Guilt.

Back when he _felt_ alive and Jessica _was_ alive he had seen her use a rosary. When her grandma was in the hospital. He wasn't sure if it was the prayers or the steady rhythm of the beads between her fingers that gave her comfort. When he found her curled on the bed clutching the rosary, he had put his hand over hers, moved his fingers in time with hers. He always liked the idea of the Hail Mary. Of course, the only Mary Sam ever prayed to was his mother.

Now mental fingers move briskly. _Click, click_. Mom is dead.

_Click, click_. Jessic is dead.

_Click, click_. Dad is dead. Because, face it, dad's death is his fault. Maybe the way he died wasn't, but it's all semantics. If he had pulled the trigger when his dad asked (_begged) _the demon would be dead. And if the demon was dead maybe Dean would have taken some time off and they wouldn't have gone on a hunt that left Dean dead.

That's the memory he can't escape. The Aswang and Dean.

It's strange. You can protect a house, a room with salt. Salt around the perimeter, the windows, symbols on the ceiling and floor. But you can't keep the monsters out of your own head. He imagines himself pouring salt into his ears, his mouth, his eyes. Sealing up all the holes so the memories can't get in. He will gladly suffocate in salt if it will stop the pain of this endless _absence of Dean_.

When Jessica died her loss left a void in him. A black hole that pulled in the darkness and pain from all directions until he could barely stand the weight of it.

Losing Dean is so much worse.

--------------------------------------------------

He dreams.

Not about Jessica. Now it's always Dean.

It's always the same.

The Aswang reaches for Dean and Dean is just _one_ second too slow. Sam tries to get there in time, tries to do _something,_ but fails. The Aswang holds Dean and _smiles_ just before Sam kills it. It whispers: _You're the one that killed him, Sam._

When Sam wakes up he wants to cry but the tears are all gone. He blinks up the ceiling and prays to Mary for mercy. Or for fire. It doesn't matter which. They're both the same now.

---------------------------------------------------

One night he dreams Dean pivots just in time and shoots the demon point blank in the face.

Dean turns to Sam and nods once. _I'm coming._

_---------------------------------------------------------------_

Sam's sitting in the dayroom on a Saturday afternoon. A girl about his age sits on a couch nearby. An older women sits beside her and Sam guesses it's her mother. The mother has a smile nailed to her face and nods periodically while her daughter talks. Sam watches and can tell the mother isn't really listening.

But he is.

"--and they don't care. They don't even believe me," the young woman says bitterly. She has hair the color of tangerines and pulls a strand of it out while she talks. The woman keeps guiding the girl's hand back to her lap but the hand drifts away again like a balloon. "I wake up and it's standing _this_ far from my face," she says, holding thumb and forefinger an inch apart. Her face twists in a grimace of dismay. "It scares the shit out of me, Mom! What am I supposed to do?"

"Paula." The girl's mother makes a pinched face of disapprovel. "Watch your words."

Paula rolls her eyes and pulls out a strand of hair. "It scares the _shit_ out of me," she emphasizes and her eyes narrow. "I know you think I'm crazy, and I am, but not in that way." Her hand moves in her hair, searching, twisting. "I've never had hallucinations and you know it."

Paula's mother sighs a long suffering sigh. "There's no such thing as ghosts," she explains in a saccharine tone of voice, "and you know it."

Paula's face goes dark. "Thanks for listening, _Mom_," she spits and pushes herself off the couch. "I really appreciate your support." She shuffles away, slippers slapping against tile.

The woman sits quietly, as if unaware her daughter has left.

---------------------------------------------------------

"How do you think Dean would feel if he could see you, Sam?" Robinson asks quietly. "Don't you think he'd be worried about you? That he'd want you to get on with your life?"

"Dean can't see me. He's dead," Sam responds matter-of-factly. I keep waiting for him to come. I keep waiting and he's not here.

"Sam." Robinson's voice holds a gentle reproach. "You told me once that you and Dean spent a lot of time helping people. Wouldn't he want you to help yourself?"

Sam wraps his arms around himself but there's little comfort. Helping people. The family business. Dean made hunting worthwhile. Without Dean it seems so. . . pointless. Would Dean really want him to keep hunting on his own?

And the thought REVENGE flashes briefly through his mind. Revenge for Dean. Kill the demons like the Aswang. Kill every demon.

It's a new thought. He hasn't thought of revenge before. It makes him feel vaguely alive.

It's an interesting thought.

But revenge takes time and energy.

And he has too much of one and not enough of the other.

What would Dean want him to do?

He thinks back to the girl in the dayroom. It scares the shit out of me. I know you think I'm crazy, and I am, but not in that way.

He's not sure what Dean would want him to do, but he knows what Dean would do.

Dean would help her.

Later, Sam sits at the table long after the others have left. A nurse eyeballs him for a moment, but a doctor approaches and her attention is diverted. Sam takes the opportunity to slip the salt shaker into the pocket of his robe.

Throughout the evening his hand repeatedly strays to his side, checking to make sure the shaker's still there.

Paula's room is in Hall E of the opposite wing. Her door is open and he knocks hesitantly on the wall beside the door frame.

She's reading a book and looks up.

He stands there feeling awkward, but manages a strained "Hi."

She goes back to her book. The cover reads: _Onyx and Crake_.

"I heard you with your Mom, before," Sam starts. "In the dayroom."

She sighs and puts the book down. She stares at him. "My mom?"

"You were, uh, talking about ghosts," he prompts.

Paula's hand drifts up to her hair. "Actually, it's just one ghost," she says. Her mouth quirks. "Do you believe in ghosts or do you just like to admit you listen in on private conversations?"

Sam fingers the salt shaker in his pocket. "I guess it would be the ghost thing," he admits. He tries to smile but his face won't cooperate.

Paula flips her book shut. "If I have to keep staring up at you my neck is going to break. What are you, ten feet tall? Either sit down and talk to me or leave me alone. You can pick."

Sam only hesitates a moment. Then he's sitting on the uncomfortable chair in the corner of her room.

"You've seen a ghost?" Sam prompts.

Paula nods. "Twice. A week ago Tuesday and then last night."

"Did it try to hurt you?"

"Nah." She shrugs. "It just . . . flickered beside the bed. He kept trying to tell me something but I couldn't understand him."

"He?"

"Yeah. It was a guy. Youngish. He yakked for quite a while but I have no idea what he was trying to say." She squints, trying to recall the moment. "He spoke English, he just seemed ... too far away. Like he was talking from miles away instead of two feet."

Sam nods, familiar with the phenomenon. "I have something that can help you." Tentatively, he pulls the orange salt shaker out of his pocket. "Salt acts as a deterrent to spirits and certain other entities." He moves to the door and pours a thin line across the doorway. "Pouring lines of salt across doorways and windows keeps evil–or even ambiguous–spirits away." He catches her look of surprise and feels his face grow hot. "I know it sounds strange, but it does work. I've been doing this for a long time . . ." his voice trails off and he's no longer in Paula's room. He's in a cabin with his father–only not–and Dean. There's salt around the windows and–

"Hey."

Paula's voice pulls him back. He blinks. "What?"

"You've been doing what a long time? Dumping salt on people's floors without asking?"

He looks from her cool face to the floor. She has another strand of hair wound around a finger. She rolls her eyes. "I'm kidding. I don't give a shit about salt on the floor. It's not like I have to clean it up." She draws her knees up and hugs an arm around them. She's wearing Happy Bunny jersey pants and a matching shirt. She shrugs, "Frankly, I like my room to have a little seasoning now and again."

Sam remains by the door, silent. He's thinking about pouring salt into his head again. What's a deterrent to _memory_? He shakes his head, snapping back to the present. "Okay," he says, "Well. I hope that helps." He turns to leave.

"Wait a sec. What's your name, Salt Man?" Paula holds out her hand, expectant. Fresh twin scars run the length of her arm. " I'm Paula."

"Sam." He shakes her hand, once, twice.

"Nice to meet you." She smiles.

"You too," he mumbles and ducks out the door.

Her voice follows him down the hallway: "Thanks for the salt. Tomorrow can you bring the pepper?"

The dream changes again. Dean kills the Aswang and turns to Sam. "That thing's nasty ass, Sam." He claps Sam on the back. "Let's get out of here. Somewhere there's a beer calling my name." They move toward the Impala in tandem until Dean holds a hand up, stopping Sam. He tilts his head. "You hear that?"

"What?"

"The sound of a Shirley Temple calling you." He elbows Sam. "In a girly voice."

Sam glares but there's no real malice in the look. "Jerk."

"Bitch."

The smile is still on Sam's lips when he wakes.

The moment freezes, bends.

Breaks.

--------------------------------------------

The next day Sam doesn't get out of bed. His regular nurse comes in, and then another. They ask about his shoulder and his appetite. Finally Dr. Robinson makes an appearance. He talks about the progress Sam is making. There's talk about goals and release dates. There's talk of outpatient therapy and group meetings and . . . Sam stops listening. He closes his eyes and pretends to sleep. He feels on arm on his shoulder. It's comforting and Sam pretends it's Dean.

"I'll be back later," Dr. Robinson promises and Sam is finally alone.

He stares at the wall, back to the door. It hurt when his dad died, but not like this. The word _pain_ ludicrous. It's a fucking insult. It's like saying the Grand Canyon is big or the ocean is deep. He doesn't know what to do without Dean. Even at Stanford, he knew Dean was out there somewhere. If Sam needed him, he could have called. But now there was no forwarding number. There was nothing.

Dean had been more than his brother. He'd been Sam's mom and his dad--a better dad than John Winchester--and his best friend. _And_ his annoying brother. Dean took on all those roles without complaint. Dean took care of him, watched over him, made fun of him. Sam brings his hands up to cover his face. He wants Dean. He thinks about the Crossroads Demon and clenches a fist. He'd sell his soul right now if it brought Dean back. He'd sell his soul if it meant he could have Dean for just one more day. Just a little more time to talk. To hang out. To say goodbye.

"Sam?"

The voice startles him. He rubs his hands viciously over his face. He rolls over and glares at the door.

Paula is standing there. She's wearing a baseball cap. She clasps and unclasps her hands, nervous. "Am I. . .interrupting?"

Sam snorts. "Interrupting what? My breakdown?" He sits up, hands still in fists. "What?" His tone is harsher than he intends.

She taps the floor with the toe of a slipper. "I just wanted to say thanks. The salt worked."

Thoughts of Dean recede a bit. "It did? That's . . . that's great."

She smiles. "Well, it sort of worked, anyway."

"Sort of?"

"The ghost. . ." she trails off and makes a face. "Do you have any idea how stupid I feel saying that word all the time?" She continues without giving Sam a chance to reply. "The ghost couldn't cross the salt line, just like you said!" Pause. "So he stood in the hallway and yelled in at me."

Sam's eyebrows shoot upward. "He _yelled_? Could you hear him? Was he violent?"

She shakes her head. "No, nothing like that. He seemed, I don't know, annoyed. And I could actually understand some of what he said. He wanted me to give you a message."

Sam swallows a sudden lump in his throat. No. He can't let himself hope. The words sound far way. "What message?"

Paula squinches her face in concentration. "He said . . . tell Sammy I'm sorry. And that you should protect me." She laughs. 'Who knew ghosts were chivalrous?" The laughter dies when she sees Sam's face.

He looks _struck. _Like she just hit him in the face. With an iron pipe. He slides off the bed and moves toward her slowly, hands trembling. "Did he say Sam or Sammy?" he demands hoarsely. He needs to know. If it was really him he would say--

He would say--

"Defintely Sammy." Curious: "What does it mean?

Sam springs forward like he's pulled by a wire. He puts a hand on each arm, and gives her a shake. "What else did he say?" He needs to know. Her words are oxygen.

Paula opens her mouth but no words come out. She goes still. Her pupils dilate and Sam has the feeling she is . . . gone. Somewhere else. He's torn between a desperate _need_ and concern for the woman. "Paula?"

Paula slumps against him, with a shudder. "Oh my God!" Her eyes are wide and wet with unshed tears. "Oh. My. God.."

Sam gently guides her to the bed and he sits beside her. "What's wrong?"

Paula blinks back tears and studies Sam's face with an intensity that makes him self-conscious. "You were in a fire?" It's more of a question than a statement.

Sam is nonplused. "What? Uh, yeah. Did the ghost (_it's Dean, it's got be Dean, just say it–say it!) _say something about a fire?"

She shakes her head. "No. When you touched me . . . " she trails off.

Sam presses, impatient. "_What?"_

"I saw you. In a bedroom. You were screaming and there was blood on your forehead. I saw . . . on the ceiling, uh," her voice trembles, "a woman. On fire. The whole room was on fire." They stare at each other. "And something else," she remembers. "There was a guy who came in to save you. He, uh, looked like the ghost in my room."

"How do you know about the fire?" Sam demands

She shrugs. "I don't know. When you touched me, I just . . . " She frowns and scoots a few inches away. "Lately, when I touch someone, or someone touches me I sort of, see something." She searches for the right word. "Like, a memory or something. It's only happened twice so far."

Sam watches her for a long moment. Finally: "When did it start? A few months ago?"

She nods.

"But your mom's alive?"

Paula flashes him a look. "And that's relevant because . . .?"

He talks quickly, urgently. "I know this is going to sound crazy but–"

Paula's mouth quirks. "Please note the fact we are in a psychiatric ward."

A ghost of a smile flits across Sam's face. "Noted. Okay, ah, here's the thing. My mom died when I was six months old. A demon killed her. He pinned her to the ceiling and started a fire. Twenty-two years later the demon killed Jessica–my girlfriend–the same way." Paula is still listening although her hand is in her hair now, pulling. "This demon has killed a lot of other moms. He always kills when the baby is six months old. And these kids, well they grow up and some of them, hell, maybe all of them, I don't know. . . they have powers." He makes a face like the word tastes bad. He tries another: "Abilities. I've met two other kids like me so far. Max had telekinesis and Andy could sort of control your thoughts. Make you do things," he elaborates.

"You said 'kids like me.' What's your ability?"

"Visions. I see the future."

She looks mildly impressed. "That's kind of cool."

"It's not. Most of my visions are of people dying." His voice grows ragged. "And I can't save them."

Paula regards him. "Is that why you're in here? The visions gave you a case of the crazies?" Her voice hushed.

Sam snorts. "Well that's debatable, but that's not why I'm in here. My brother died."

"Sweet Holy Jesus!" Paula breathes, connecting the dots. "The ghost I saw? The guy in my memory–I mean your memory–" she shakes her head at the _weirdness _of it all "was that your brother?"

Sam nods. "I think so. His name's Dean." He almost says _was Dean_ but that feels like murder and he can't. He won't.

Paula pulls out a hair and wraps it around her finger. "So . . . basically, you're telling me ghosts are real. Demons are real."

Sam's face is pained. "I'm sorry. I know this is hard to accept."

"And I might be some kind of . . . empath. What's it called when you see the past?"

"I–I don't know. I don't know if that's a psychic or not. I see the future."

"Goody for you," Paula snarks. Then snaps her fingers. "Oh yeah. And my mom did die in fire." On Sam's look she adds: "Just like you said. I was six months old. I've lived with my Aunt ever since and I usually call her Mom." A pause. "Unless I'm pissed." She shrugs. "And, actually, I'm pissed off a lot."

Sam runs his hands through his hair, nervous. "Can we get out of here? Go to the dayroom? The hallway?" He hesitates. "I wasn't feeling the most, um, social earlier and Dr. Robinson is going to be back here soon."

"Let's go."

They sit in the windowseat, cross-legged, face to face.

"Tell me exactly what Dean said." His voice is low and eager.

Paula runs a finger over her eyebrow, thinking. "I'll do the best I can, okay? It's not like I was taking notes."

Sam nods. Good enough.

"I was sleeping. And then I heard this voice. Like, 'psst' and I woke up. I thought it was a nurse. Or that anorexic girl next door. But when I looked I saw this guy standing there. And I knew it was the ghost, even before he flickered.

He pointed to the salt line and said, _What the hell is this? _And I told him it was salt. He was like, _Thanks nutjob, that's not why I meant. _Why_ is there salt?_

I told him it was from this guy named Sam and he--Dean--got all excited. He told me--just a second."

Paula exhales slowly and pulls out an eyelash. Sam flinches but doesn't say anything. He doesn't care if she pulls off her nose as long as she keeps talking about Dean. She smiles, calmer. Her eyes flick open. "Okay. Where was I? Oh yeah. He said I should tell you to protect me," she casts Sam a quizzical look, "and that you need to chill out."

Incredulous: "He told you I need to _chill out_?"

She nods. "He said your aura or energy or some shit is too strong when you're upset and he's having trouble getting through to you."

Sam can't believe this. His aura is too strong? _What the fuck_? He feels Paula's eyes on him. "What?"

"Are you okay? You look a little stressed."

Sam barks a laugh. "Stressed? Yeah, you could say that." He laughs again and then--he's crying. Looks like he's not done with the tears after all. He drops his head into his hands.

He's tired of crying.

He's tired, period.

But he feels the faintest breath of hope.

He might be able to keep going if he can just see Dean.

Paula reaches a hand out toward Sam, hesitates, and stops. Finally she pats his back awkwardly, the way you'd pat a seventeen year old arthritic dog. Who is dying.

Sam wipes at his face and makes a wet laughing sound. "What are you doing?" He shrugs her hand off.

"I'm comforting you," She explains, like he's a very slow child. She reaches into the pocket of her sweatpants and hands him a kleenex. "I was just worried I might see another memory from your past if I touched you. Or I might trigger a vision."

Sam takes the kleenex and wipes his eyes. "Don't worry about it," he tells her hoarsely, "my visions don't work like that."

"Good, because I was really hoping you can tell me why I need to be protected."

"Remember I told you how the demon killed my mom and your mom?"

Paula gives him a look that says _I'm not likely to forget._

"I think--I mean, I _know_--the demon wants something from us. From kids like us. This one guy I met, Webber, he had dreams where a man with yellow eyes told him to kill people." Urgently: "The man with yellow eyes is the demon. Have you had any dreams like that?"

Paula's forehead crinkles in concentration. "No. . . I don't remember any."

"Well if you do . . ." Sam trails off, a sudden knife of pain spiking through his head. "Ahh." He pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to hold back the pain. He struggles to finish, "Don't listen. Whatever you do, don't listen to the demon with yellow eyes," he pants. "To _anyone_ with yellow eyes. Understand?"

Paula nods. "Yellow eyes equals bad. Got it."

Sam rubs his forehead, he can feel the iron band tighten around his skull. "Dammit, Paula. This isn't a joke. You've got to--ah--no--"

And the room is gone. He blinks through the pain, straining to see. _oh god oh god oh god_ it hurts. His head is going to split. He's going to have an aneyrism. He's--

looking at a busy intersection. Motorists on their way home from work. Pedestrians brush past him. Sam turns in a circle, looking for danger, for a sign, for _something_ out of the ordinary.

And there's Paula. Her hair is pulled back in some kind of braid to disguise the bald spot on her head. She's wearing a flowered dress and swinging an oversized purse. She lookes nice.

Sam wonders if she's on her way home from work.

An mp-3 player is clipped to her purse and she's listening to music, head moving with the rhythm.

He takes a step foward and calls her name.

The crosswalk light blinks _walk_ and she moves out into the street.

And a car turns the corner, tires squealing.

Paula doesn't hear it, doesn't see.

The car aims for her, deliberate.

Paula looks up at the last minute, eyes wide with shock. Her mouth drops open but she doesn't have a chance to scream.

She bounces across the hood and into the windshield. The car speeds up and her body slides onto the pavement in a rain of glass. Her eyes are still wide with shock, but they don't see.

Sam gets one look at the driver. Right before the car skids around another corner their eyes meet. The driver has black eyes and Sam thinks: _demon_.

The pain is back and it's brought friends. Sam squints and sees images flash before his eyes. He pushes his palms against his eyes, trying to keep his head together. Someone is grunting in pain and it takes a moment for him to realize: _that's me_.

He hears voices before his vision clears.

Paula's voice: "--don't know what happened. One minute we were sitting there talking, the next minute he grabbed his head and was on the floor."

Dr. Robinson's voice: "We need to get him checked out. Sandy? Let's get him to the ER. I want an MRI and a CAT scan and--"

Sam opens his eyes. He's staring up at light fixtures. From the corner of his eye he can see Dr. Robinson talking to a nurse, his back to Sam.

Paula is beside him on the floor. "I tried to tell them you passed out because you thought I was so hot," she whispers with smile.

Sam laughs and it's a mistake. Fresh pain lances through his head.

"Was it a vision?" she whispers.

He nods. "Yeah, I saw--"

Dr. Robinson squats down beside Sam and shines a flashlight in his eyes. "Sam? Can you hear me?"

Sam tries to push him away. "I'm fine."

"I'm glad your feeling better, but you need to lie still," Robinson says, worried.

"I'm fine," Sam repeats, struggling to sit up.

"We're taking you down to the ER," Robinson says.

Sam shakes his head. "No, I can't." He turns to Paula. "I need to talk to you, I saw--"

"You can talk to Paula tomorrow," Robinson promises.

Paula looks sheepish. "Sam, I'm being released tomorrow. I won't be here."

Two orderlies help Sam onto a gurney. Paula follows as they move toward the elevator. "What's your last name?" Sam calls.

"Newman. N-e-w-m-a-n. Paula Newman. I'm in the phone book. Call me about the. . . you-know-what."

"I'm fine," Sam protests again, his jaw working. "I don't need to go to the ER. I need to talk to Paula. There was a car--I saw--" Robinson looks at him and Sam trails off. He can't talk about the vision now.

Paula squeezes his hand. "It'll be ok. I'll talk to you soon, okay?"

They move into the elevator and Sam watches her. He sees the car and her blank eyes. "Paula--"

"'Bye Sam," she calls and the doors slide shut.

-------------------------------------

He's been in the emergency room forever.

They think he had a seizure and Sam doesn't bother arguing.

A nurse pokes her head past the curtain. "Mr. Halford?"

Sam turns his head.

"Your brother's here to see you. You can have five minutes with him if you want."

Sam blinks. "My . . . brother?"

She checks the slip of paper in her hand. "Rob Halford."

Sam finds it hard to speak. But he tries. "Right. Yeah. Send him in." He's dreaming. Or it's a trick. Some kind of joke, maybe? A hospital mix-up? Hell, maybe the lead singer of Judas Priest really _is_ waiting to see him.

A moment later the curtain pulls back and Sam stops breathing.

Dean. Is standing there. He smiles. "Hey Sam. You keep having visions like that and I'm gonna start calling you Cordelia."


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I still own nothing Winchestery. It all belongs to Kripke et. al.

And because I'm a doofus I forgot to say that Faye betaed this for me. If it's any good at all, it's because of her.

------------------------------------------

_It makes sense that it should feel just this way_

_That you slowly fade and yet_

_Still remain_

_As if to say everything matters in such an invisible way. -- Poe_

Chapter 2

Sam stares, his mouth open.

Dean walks closer. "How many drugs they got you on, Sammy? You're not lookin' too sharp."

"Dean." Sam breathes the word like a prayer.

"That's right. Guess you didn't hit your head _that_ hard, then . . . " he glances back at the curtain. There's no movement. He turns back to Sam. "Jesus Christ on a crutch, Sam, get a move on. We're getting out of here."

"But you're dead," Sam says. His voice is waving distance from hysteria.

"Good to see your Stanford education wasn't wasted," Dean hisses. "Get some scrubs out of the closet and some of those lame ass booty things. We don't have much time."

Sam feels faint. He's dreaming. He's got to be dreaming. Which is _such_ a bitch because seeing Dean again would be _so_ _great_.

But there's a hand on his shoulder--his bad shoulder--and it hurts. The hand is connected to Dean. The pain makes Sam feel like he might actually be awake. And the pressure from Dean's hand makes him think Dean is . . . _real._

Tears spring to Sam's eyes and he's instantly blind. "Dean," he chokes, leaning toward his brother.

"Save the Hallmark moment for later," Dean snaps, "we've got to go." He shoots a level gaze at Sam. "Unless you want to spend the next couple months making macaroni pictures upstairs?"

Sam wipes his face. "Not really." He opens the cupboard and pulls on a pair of mismatched scrubs. Next he puts on a pair of blue gauzy booties over his bare feet.

"Okay, listen." Dean makes a pained face. "I am busting my ass trying to stay corporeal, and it's fucking uncomfortable. I'm running out of time and that means _you're_ running out of time."

"But Dean, how--"

"Shut it," Dean grits. "This is what we're doing. You're Dr. Kildare and I'm Mr. Patient. You're going to walk Mr. Patient to the exit and then we're hauling ass. Got it?"

Sam thinks: _Not in the least._ But he nods and years of training and teamwork push him into action. He puts an arm around Dean _and it feels so good_ he almost loses it again. But he pushes the emotion away and leads Dean to the curtain. He peeks through. There's one nurse. Nobody else. They go through the curtain and down the hallway. A red arrow on the wall points left and says: _Main Entrance._

They're standing outside beneath a gray cataract sky before a full minute's passed.

"Okay Dean," Sam says. "What the hell is going on?"

But Dean is gone.

Sam grimaces. _Shit._ Now what? Is he having a breakdown or is Dean really here? He prefers the Dean option so he works his way through the parking lot, weaving in and out of cars. Dean or no Dean, he has to get out of here. And then, at the far end of the lot, he sees it.

The Impala.

And Dean is leaning against it, arms crossed over his chest. And he's grinning like a smug bastard.

And Sam thinks: _Please don't let me wake up._

Sam has trouble keeping track of time. One minute is several hundred feet from his brother, the next moment he's leaning against the front fender. Next to Dean. He's _this_ close to crying again. After a moment of silence he says: "It's good to see you."

Dean sighs and says: "Sam."

The sound of his name, the sound of Dean's voice breaks him. Sam's down on the ground, hands over his face, sobbing.

Dean's voice is neutral; there's no reproach, no recrimination. "Come on Sammy."

Through his tears Sam says, "If this is a dream I don't want to wake up. If I wake up I won't be able to stand it."

"It's not a dream."

"Then I'm imagining you again. I did that before, Dean. I went crazy." His voice is broken glass. "I guess--I guess I still am."

"No you're not," Dean says. "Granted, I do think you're sort of a nut bar, but you're not crazy." Pause. "Much."

"Dean," Sam whispers. "You're dead. I killed you."

"Whoa. Hold on there, Samantha. I'm pretty sure that was an Aswang. You _are_ ugly, but I can tell the difference between you and an Aswang. You know, if the lighting is good."

"Stop making jokes," Sam begs. "I can't. I can't do this."

Dean bends down beside Sam and looks him in the eyes. "Do what?"

"Let myself believe."

"Believe what?"

"That you're really here."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Why the hell not? With all the stuff we've seen and done, you can't believe your brother might hang around as a ghost?"

"I don't know what I believe." Sam studies his hands a little too intently. "But I know what I want." He turns to Dean. "I want you to be alive."

Dean shrugs. "I want me to be alive too, but that's not working out for me right now."

"I'm _so_ sorry, Dean. I thought I had your back. I really did. I fucked up and you died, " Sam whispers. He whispers so his voice won't crack, so he can get the words out before the pain in his throat squeezes his windpipe shut. "I wish it had been me, I really do. Every morning I wake up and wish it had been me." An ugly laugh bubbles in his throat. "Dad died to save you and I undid it. I wrecked everything."

He smacks the back of his head against the fender. "_Fuck!_" More tears leak down his face. His eyes hurt from crying. He wonders if the tears will ever stop. It's like he's carrying around an ocean in his head.

"_Stop it," _Dean snaps and he almost sounds like John. His tone of voice is clear: _Do not fuck with me. _"I will say this once, Sam. You are not to blame. Do you understand? There was nothing you could have done. I was too slow. The Aswang got me. End of story. It is not your fault."

Sam doesn't respond. He sits, head bowed, still crying. _It is his fault. It is._

"Are you hearing me?" He taps Sam on the top of the head with one finger. "Am I getting through?" _No it's not._

Sam makes an anguished noise deep in his throat. He brushes Dean's hand away.

Dean bends lower and grasps Sam's chin. He lifts his brother's head. "Am I getting through?" he repeats.

Sam nods hesitantly. "Y-yes." _Maybe Dean is right. Dean is right so often. He doesn't know._

Dean nods. "Good." He gestures toward the front seat. "We're gonna have to continue the weep fest in the car. I'm not sure if anyone will be looking for you or not."

Sam stands and brushes off the seat of his scrubs. He sighs. "Better to be safe than sorry." He looks a question at Dean. _The keys?_

"In the ignition," Dean replies.

Sam opens the door and slides in behind the wheel.

Dean does not open the door. But he appears next to Sam in the passenger seat. Sam stares at him. "That's . . . that's just freaky," he mutters.

"_You're_ freaky," Dean grouses.

Sam stares at the steering wheel. "I don't even know where to go. I don't have any money, my stuff's back at the hospital. How did you get the car, anyway?"

Dean shrugs. "I called Bobby."

Sam makes a face. "_What?_ You called Bobby? Do your minutes roll over when you die?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "Laugh it up, Geek. I saved our asses. I contacted Bobby and he came and got the car from the impound. At least he was open to communication from me, unlike _some_ people I know." Dean frowns and mumbles what sounds like: "Although he did shoot me the one time with rock salt."

"Excuse me for being sad," Sam glares. "I can't help it if my _aura_ was the wrong color for you."

Dean glares back. Then he chuckles. "Yeah man, you have ugly ass aura. It's _mauve_."

Sam rolls his eyes but he laughs too. "I must be crazy," he mutters.

"Dude. I think we've already established that."

Sam turns the key in the ignition and the Impala roars to life. It's a beautiful sound. "Where to?"

"There's a motel right down the road. Bobby left some money in the glove compartment and there's some clothes in the backseat. He said he couldn't find Freaking Giant Size so you'll just have to make do."

Sam's smile falters when he looks in the rearview mirror. Dean's reflection isn't there.

----------------------------------

Sam tells Dean a little about the hospital on the way to the motel.

Dean tells Sam what it's like to be dead.

They talk about Dad and the Aswang and the yellow-eyed demon.

After Sam checks them into a dumpy room at the _Evergreen Lodge_ (which has no trees and is not a lodge) he tells Dean about his vision.

"Why do you think the demon wants her dead?" Dean wonders. "You said she has powers like you, right?"

Sam shrugs. "I don't know if _the_ demon wants her dead or _a _demonwants her dead." He sighs and rubs his face. He's so tired. "I guess I'll call her tomorrow and see if we can meet. I want to make sure she's okay and tell her about my vision."

Dean sits on his bed and the springs creak under his weight. "Don't you think that will freak her out?"

"I think it will freak her out more if a car runs her down," Sam states.

Dean can't argue with that.

They sit in silence a moment until Sam asks: "How does it work?" _Being a ghost. What's it like?_

Dean lifts an eyebrow. "How does what work?" _I don't know. It just _is.

_------------------------------------------_

Sam wakes up every half hour or so to check if Dean's still on the other bed.

Dean's voice floats through the darkness. "Dude. Don't you ever sleep?"

The dark hides Sam's face so he's honest. "I'm afraid you'll be gone when I wake up."

"Even if I am gone, I'll come back." There's a dry chuckle. "Where else am I gonna go?"

Sam's voice is tentative. "I could. . . I could burn your bones. I know that's what I'm supposed to do. I should let you go." There's a long pause. "That's what a good brother would do."

"What, did you take a poll? How do you know what _good_ brother would do?"

"We burned Dad."

Dean's voice is hard. "That's different."

"How?"

"Because," Dean flails. "Just because it was Dad. If you died--" Dean stops.

The dark feels thick.

"You'd what?" Sam presses.

"I just don't know how much of a hurry I'd be in to toast your bones," Dean says casually. "It's nice to have company once in a while, you know?"

Sam smiles. He knows.

The next morning Dean is gone.

Sam jolts fully awake and jerks upright. He looks around the room, heart thumping. "Dean?"

He hurries to the bathroom and looks in. It's empty.

Louder: "Dean!"

There's a knock on the door.

Sam jumps, startled, but hurries to unlock it.

Dean stands there holding a cup of coffee. "Rise and shine."

Sam grins. "Dude, how can you _do_ that?"

Dean shrugs and moves past Sam. "It's just my natural awesomeness," he says. "That, and I'm a pretty kick ass ghost." Sam takes the coffee gratefully. "Although I think I like the term _revenant _better. Sounds cooler."

Sam sets the coffee down and studies his brother. Dean looks good. He looks solid. He looks alive. He doesn't cast a shadow. "Dean," he says gently. "Are you okay with this? I mean, I know you aren't _okay_, but is there anything I can do to--to help?"

"I'm fine, Sammy," his brother says lightly. "It's not like I gotta worry about hangovers or raw heads anymore."

"I know," Sam says quickly. "I just . . . I'm just . . . sorry. You know?"

Dean scowls. "Don't start that shit again, man. I mean it."

Sam stares down at his coffee, silent.

Dean sighs. "Look. Everything's the same."

Sam looks up, his expression is: _Are you completely high?_

Dean waves the look away. "Okay, so not _everything_, but it's still me and you hunting, right? We're gonna go find the hair puller chick and we'll move on to the next gig. We'll keep hunting." Dean locks eyes with Sam. "That _is_ what you want, right?"

Sam doesn't answer right away. He tries to imagine himself in college or with a job. He can't. The world has flipped and the only normal he knows now is with Dean. "I don't know what else to do," he finally admits. "I don't know what to do besides hunt."

"You're pretty good at crying," Dean says. "Maybe there's a future for you in that."

Sam flips Dean the finger in reply.

They're on the way to meet Paula.

Sam drives and Dean is beside him. Sam keeps casting surreptitious glances in Dean's direction and he's smiling like it's Christmas. Every day.

"What the hell?" Dean demands, "Is your problem?"

Sam grin grows even wider. "I'm just . . . glad. To have you back. I--I missed you."

Dean groans. "Come on Sam, haven't we had enough chick flick moments yet?"

Sam's grin slips into a smirk. "Nope."

"Well you're wrong."

Sam's eyebrows lift. "Oh, really? What are you gonna do about it?"

"I'm gonna haunt your ass," Dean growls.

Sam yawns and points to his face. "Uh-huh. And this is my scared face."

"Then how about this?" Dean leans over and whacks the back of Sam's head.

"Hey," Sam grumps, rubbing his head. "I thought ghosts were supposed to be incorporeal."

"I can, uh, corporealize when I want to," Dean says. As an afterthought. "And I'm a revenant."

"Whatever."

"Classic come back, junior."

Paula sits on a swing. She pushes herself forward, lets herself swing backward. Back and forth. Back forth. She grins up at Sam, her face bright. "Hey Salt Man! So you're playing hooky from the hospital."

Sam takes the swing beside her. "Yup. I met my quota of crazy." He shrugs. "For _this_ week."

She laughs and peers at Dean. "So you're Dean, right? You look good for a dead guy. You almost look real."

"So do you," Dean snarks. Then grins. "Thanks for your help, by the way. With Sam." He looks vaguely uncomfortable.

Sam tries to hide his delighted smile behind a cough.

Dean leans against the picnic table across from the swings. He puts his hands in his pockets.

The day is overcast with a bitter wind. Paula shivers and rubs her hands together. "So can you tell me about the vision?" she asks Sam. "You said it had to do with me, right?"

Sam's mood darkens. "Yeah. I saw you, um, I saw you get hit by a car." He looks at Paula intently. "But don't worry. I'm going to do whatever I can to help you, okay? I want to make sure you stay safe."

Paula lifts an eyebrow. "You mean the way you kept your brother safe?" she asks.

Sam flinches at the words. But he can't deny their truth.

"Wait just a minute," Dean starts angrily.

"You're quite a guy, Samuel." Paula laughs softly. She stands and steps away from the swing.

"You kill your own brother and he doesn't leave you, even in death." Paula shakes her head in mock disgust. "But then Dean always was loyal to a fault." Her eyes flicker and they're yellow. She stares hard at Dean, her voice a hiss. "_Aren't you_?"

Sam's throat goes dry. His voice is sandpaper. "Who are you?"

"I'll give you a hint, boys." She smiles a wicked grin. "Daddy says hi."

"You _bastard_!" Dean snarls. He rushes the Demon, hands fisted, his hate a weapon.

The Demon flicks a lazy hand toward Dean and just like _that_ Dean is gone.

Sam spins, taking in the empty park. "Where is he?" he grits at The Demon. "What did you do to him?"

The Demon sighs deeply. "Lamentably, I did nothing more than inconvenience him. Now that he's no longer human, he's not so easy to control. Unlike _you."_ Sam feels himself fly through the air and then he is smashed into the the metal ladder leading up to the monkey bars. Breath rushes out of him and he struggles to stay conscious. The Demon smiles and Sam slides _up_ the ladder, his feet moving off the ground. The bars press painfully into his back.

"Leave me alone!" Sam growls.

"I will," The Demon agrees. "But not quite yet." He runs his hands down the sides of Paula's body. "I'm not done trying on my new _outfit_." The Demon makes a rueful face. "Of course, I'll just have to throw it away when I'm done. I hate wearing the same thing twice," the yellow eyes grin at Sam, "don't you?"

"Don't hurt her," Sam grits, struggling to move. "She didn't do anything!"

Sam feels more pressure and there's a _snap_ in his chest. He has time to think: _holy fuck my rib just broke _before the pain drags a scream from him. And then another.

The Demon walks slowly toward Sam. He smile warmly, like they're old friends.

"But you see Sam, she did. When I came to see her last night she told me _Sammy_ warned her about a man with yellow eyes. She didn't want to play on my side, Sam, and I take that personal." There's another snap and Sam screams again. He's wringing with sweat and breathing is agony. He eyes roll from side to side, desperate for someone to hear his cries, for someone to help. He's desperate for Dean.

The Demon whispers in Sam's ear. "Whaddya say, you wanna play on my team? It's gonna be a real good game. And you can be my starting player," Paula's lips curve in a horrible smile and Sam's eyes squeeze shut. _oh god help me dean please help me anyone please_

"Let's be friends," The Demon croons softly. "Maybe I'll let your little friend go."

"Go to hell!" Sam screams. "Get away from me." There's something wet on his lips. He spits blood. "Get out of her!"

The Demon studies Sam's face. "You really want me to get out of Paula?" He speaks confidentially, "To tell you the truth, Sammy, I think this suit isn't quite up to par."

"Get out!" The pain rips through Sam and he's crying, "_please._"

The Demon shrugs, considering. And then there's a smile. Teeth fill Sam's world. "For you Sam? Anything."

And then the pain stops. No, not quite. It's pushed aside. It goes into a drawer in the corner and the drawer slams shut. There's something new. A presence. A weight on his soul and Sam realizes, although it's too late to do anything but scream, that The Demon is in him.

Sam can't see. He feels his body move, but he can't tell where. It feels a little like the time he and Dean played hide and seek and he hid in the closet. He can hear the Demon in his head. "It's time to go Sammy. You're coming with me." More movement and Sam is terrified. He can't get out, he's trapped in his own body, he wants The Demon _out out out_.

Another voice, distant: _Sam! Can you hear me?_

Dean? Sam tries to turn toward the sound but he can't get his body to work. This is how Meg felt, he realizes. _please Dean please_

Sam can feel the smile on his face, hear the words come from his mouth, but they're not his words. "Hey, Dean. I can't wait to tell Dad that you're dead. It's a little ironic."

_Get out of him you sick fuck._

"Is that any way to talk to your brother?"

_No, but you're not my brother._

Laughter bubbles in Sam's throat. "You got me Dean. Busted."

Sam concentrates as hard as he can and reaches out toward Dean. He can't move his body, but he thinks _maybe_ he can sense him. The Demon bends down toward Paula. She's on her hands and knees, crying. She tries to crawl away.

The Demon reaches out and snags the back of her shirt with one hand. Sam's hand. He can feel the fabric. He's screaming.

Sam's face takes on an annoyed expression. "Your brother seems to be having a bit of a tantrum. The sooner he gets over this whole _sanctity of life_ thing the better it will be for all of us." The Demon smiles. "Luckily, you can help with that Paula."

She's crying harder, "--no, please Sam, what did I do, please--" but Sam's arm yanks her backwards and the words are cut off.

Sam mutters to himself: _Concentrate, concentrate, concentrate. _He can feel a spark of pain burst in his head. He squeezes his inner eye shut and imagines Dean. Dean in his jeans and black t-shirt. The old leather coat, dusty and cracked. The tilt of his head. His mind fills with Dean and he _pulls_ with every ounce of strength he has. _Come on,_ he grits. _COME ON! _

And the pain is stronger now. It grows claws that sink into his skull. The Demon feels it too and his grip on Paula falters. With a hoarse shriek Sam manages to reach one hand--_his_ hand--toward Dean and Dean takes it.

They are the circuit.

Two parts equal the whole.

Sam's power and Dean's energy connect.

Sam sees (more accurately _feels) _a burst of light. It shoots out of him like an electric ripple and Paula is thrown several yards away. Dean's hand is torn from Sam's and Sam can feel the weight lift just a fraction. He screams for Dean and _pushes_ (_like the china cabinet, move the china cabinet) _and starts to choke as something pours out of his throat.

There's a loud rushing in Sam's ears and the pain whistles like a rocket and then the rocket explodes and there's nothing left.

Sam's chest is on fire.

His head is in agony.

He can't breath.

Sam emits a choked gurgle and tries to open his eyes.

He manages the task on the second try.

He can't hear much beyond the roaring in his ears. His pain sounds like the ocean.

Eventually, he hears Dean's voice and breathing becomes a little easier.

He tries to speak and there's another choked sound. He flails a hand toward the voice. "D. . .ean."

"Sammy." Dean's voice is gentle so that means Sam must be pretty bad off. He turns his head with some effort. His brother is a foot away. One hand is on Sam's arm, the other is on Paula's shoulder.

_Paula._ It come back to him. The Demon in Paula. He shivers. The Demon in him.

Paula is shaking. Her face is pallid, her eyes too wide.

Sam tries to tell her how sorry he is, so very sorry, but his mouth isn't cooperating with his brain and it comes out "'m . . . orry."

In the distance a siren wails like an angry child.

"We have to get out of here," Dean says to Sam. To Paula he asks, "Can you get home? Are you okay?"

Paula's chin trembles and she shakes her head. "Not really."

"Do you want to come with us?"

Her mouth twists into a grimace. "Not really."

"Then you go," Dean tell her. "Sorry about all this."

Paula nods absently, but remains on the ground.

Dean puts an arm around Sam's shoulder. "Okay, Sam. You ready? On the count of three. One . . . two . . . _three_."

Dean pulls him up and Sam bites down on a scream. He can feel his ribs move and the pain is a hammer. His vision blurs and he sways unsteadily, but Dean has him.

"Can I be a . . . ghost with you?" Sam slurs.

Dean guides Sam much faster than Sam wants to go. "Shut up, Geek Boy," he mutters. "Only one of us can be a ghost at a time. It's like a rule."

"Is not. A rule," Sam grumbles.

The walk to the Impala is endless. Sam's skin is a sickly gray and sweat runs down his face in sheets. His feet won't work together and Dean ends up dragging him most of the way.

When Dean finally deposits him into the passenger seat Sam groans and his head droops against his chest.

Dean hurries around the car to the driver's door. Then stops.

_Shit._

He doesn't think he can drive. He's not sure if he's. . . solid enough.

His brain reels. The sirens are much louder and Sam looks like shit. Not to mention out cold.

What to do?

Absurdly he thinks: _How many revenants does it take to drive a car? Answer: None, they can't hold the fucking wheel._

He slides in behind the wheel and starts the car, biting his lip. _Please work. _The Impala purrs to life and Dean pats the dash affectionately. _I missed you too, baby._

He puts the car in drive and squeals out of the parking lot. He's tense and hunched in the seat the whole way to the hotel. He has visions of himself disappearing and the driverless car--_with Sam trapped inside_--smashing into a tree. Or careening off a bridge. Or hitting another car head on.

"Dean?" Sam lifts his head awkwardly. "You drivin'?"

"Looks that way," Dean says, casting a worried glance at Sam's gray face. "How you feelin'?"

Sam's head falls back against the head rest. "I've felt better."

Dean smiles. "That I believe."

They make it back to the motel with the car in one piece. Dean helps Sam into the room and onto a bed.

Sam blinks up at Dean and smiles. In the darkened room, the blood on Sam's face looks black. Dean gets a washcloth and cleans him up as best he can.

"I took care of you like this," Sam murmurs. "But you were dead."

"Yeah, well, you're not." Dean regards his brother, cataloging bruises. "I've gotta get the first aid kit from the car. Give you some pain pills and bind those ribs up."

The sound of The Demon's voice flashes in Sam's mind and he flinches. The sound of his voice but _not_ his voice. The feeling of being _bound_. "Don't leave," Sam blurts out.

Dean hesitates. "I've got to get the first aid, Sam. I'll be right back." He looks over his shoulder at Sam. "I promise."

Sam manages a slight nod and clutches the sheet in his hands.

The next few days are a blur of pain drenched sleep. No matter how Sam lays his ribs hurt.

Every time he wakes his eyes scan the room for Dean. And Dean is always there, watching over him. _My guardian angel._ Sam realizes that even when Dean was alive, that's what he was. Even in death his job hasn't changed. Sam feels the guilt squeeze his already aching ribs, but below the stained veneer of guilt is relief. He is so thankful Dean is with him.

Once, Sam wakes to find Dean sitting in a chair beside the bed.

Dean offers a crooked smile. "Hey lazy bones."

Sam blinks. "You came back," he mutters.

Dean frowns. "I've been sitting here for the past two hours, Sam. What are you talking about?"

Sam rolls his head back and forth on the pillow. "No," he whispers. "You came backto_ me._" _Thank you._

Dean elbows Sam lightly. "Where else am I going to go? I gotta keep on eye on you." _I came back as much for me as for you, Sam. Maybe more._

His headache is better on the third day. Dean procures some soup at some point and alternately cajoles and nags Sam into eating.

They don't talk about The Demon.

Dean doesn't mention Paula does not return his calls.

Dean flips through the channels. He gives the soap opera characters fake dialogue that makes Sam laugh and his ribs hurt. Dean eventually turns on a game show and they take turns commenting on the varying lameness of the prizes.

By the fourth day Sam is moving around the motel room on his own.

That afternoon Sam asks: "Were you with me in the hospital?"

Dean looks surprised. And then uncomfortable. He purses his lips and nods. "Yeah. Not right away. It took me a little bit to figure out where I was. What I was. But when I figured it out I tracked you down."

Sam rubs a hand over his wounded chest. "I wish I could have seen you."

Dean's face tightens. His jaw works for a moment. He says, "Sometimes I wish I hadn't been able to see you."

Sam lifts his head to get a better look at his brother. "Really? Why?"

Dean's face takes on a look of misery. "Because I was helpless. You couldn't see me, I couldn't talk to you and you were . . . you were . . ." Dean trails off.

"Sort of messed up," Sam finishes. He cringes at the memory of his weakness.

Dean snorts in disbelief. "_Sort of messed up_? Dude, you were seriously fucked up. And I'm sorry about that." _Í'm sorry I left you. I'm sorry I couldn't protect you._

"Don't be sorry. I'm—I'm fine."

Dean's look says, _Fine, my ass._

Sam pushes away the memories of the loneliness. Of being lost. "Okay," he concedes, "I'm not fine yet. But I think," he meets Dean's eyes, " . . . I think I will be." _I'll try to be okay for you. I'll try to forgive myself for you._

"Well," Dean reflects, "you always were a _little_ crazy, so don't expect any miracles or anything."

Dean goes back to flipping channels. After a moment he grins. "Sweet! Mythbusters is on! I hope it's the one where they try to blow up the toilet."

Sam pretends to watch the television.

But mostly he watches Dean.

They're both sitting on the hood of the Impala.

Sam studies Dean's silhouette. "I would have done anything to keep you alive," he says quietly. "You know that, right?"

Dean rubs a hand across his chin. Then sighs. "I know."

Sam's afraid to ask, but he has to know. "How long?"

"How long what?"

"Until you . . .have to go?"

Dean grimaces. "Dude. This isn't Beetlejuice. It's not like I have a handbook." He shrugs off Sam's worry. "But I'm not going anywhere."

"If you start to freak out and go all evil I'm gonna have to burn your bones," Sam finally says.

"If you start to freak out and go all evil I'm gonna have break your bones." Dean responds.

Sam snorts out a laugh. He closes his eyes, enjoys the moment.

"Oh, before I forget, here." Something smacks Sam lightly in the chest.

Sam looks down. Dean's amulet is in his lap. Sam feels the familiar stinging in his eyes and blinks back tears. "Dean . . ."

"That's yours now. I don't think a revenant has much need for a protection amulet. You, on the other hand, are a walking demon magnet." _This is proof I'm with you. Even when you can't see me._

Sam's fingers trace the chord, the smooth curve of the silver. "Thanks," Sam says hoarsely. He slips it over his head and tucks the amulet beneath his t-shirt. He leans toward his brother but Dean puts up a hand.

"Dude. If you try to hug me you'll need to use that amulet against _me_."

Sam makes a face. "You are such a jerk."

Dean laughs and slides off the hood. Sam follows and they both get in the car.

Sam turns the key in the ignition. "So where to?" _I'm glad you're here._

Dean gestures to the newspaper clipping on the dashboard. "You interested in those horse mutilations over Minnesota?" _Me too._

Sam flips on the stereo and inserts a tape. _Crazy Train_ blares out of the speakers.

Dean flashes Sam a look of surprise. "Ozzy? What about all your folky indie weepy emo crap?"

A corner of Sam's mouth twitches. "Driver picks the music, passenger shuts his cake hole," he intones.

Dean stares at Sam for a long moment, then he grins.

Sam can tell Dean is pleased about the music. Sam grins back.

The road unwinds before him.

The engine rumbles beneath him.

And Dean is beside him.

He can ask for nothing more.

--end--


End file.
